Worse than squibs
by newtypeshadow
Summary: Voldemort's final curse was to open the eyes of wizards to their own hypocrisy. And when one door opens, another door...


**Title:** We were worse than squibs (The Last Curse of Voldemort)  
**Author:** newtypeshadow

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We were worse than squibs; we were wizards who'd been powerful, and now saw less than nothing in our mirrors. Voldemort's final curse was to open our eyes to our hypocrisy.

He stole the magic of every wizard within one hundred miles of where he stood before Potter could do away with him, and when he was undone our power was gone too; excepting Potter, that is, because he's always been an exceptional boy. But us, we were muggles trapped in wizard houses that no longer responded to our commands; muggles who couldn't perform simple cleaning spells or see the hidden magic doors on London streets we knew were there; ex-wizards beneath even the squibs, who had enough magic in them to learn to fake the rest.

And what were we to do? The Ministry wanted to forget us-everyone did. We had no protection, because no matter what we'd all said before, wizards look down on muggles under the guise of "protecting them" and we all hated ourselves for what we no longer had. There was no way to continue living in the wizarding world, not without magic. The only thing keeping the ministry from _obliviate_ing us all was what family some of us were fortunate enough to have, though we hated them too for a time. And still many woke in muggle hospitals with no memory of their lives or families beyond age eleven. They were nothing more than children in overlarge bodies-helpless on their own, and no one stepped up to care for them. Some had brain damage from such an extensive charm; others had unexplainable wounds that festered in those ill-equipped hospitals before the patients quite unexpectedly died; and many woke feeling something was missing. Those were the wizards who'd been most powerful, the ones you'd find bewilderedly staring into invisible wizard doorways and muttering, trying to remember what was there; they all died mysteriously within months of their hospital releases.

There was no word for us yet. We weren't squibs or wizards, but neither were we muggles in the conventional sense. To ourselves we were worthless; to our families we were invalids; we were helpless to the magickal populace, and an embarrassment to the Ministry.

Many of us went to London. We weren't careful about it either-we were still too much wizard to think we were ignorant, never dreaming the muggles would notice a sudden outpouring of homeless, wonky, uneducated adults into the job market. Soldiers who escaped _obliviat_ion were given veterans pay "until they could get back on their feet again"; it barely paid for basic muggle schooling, and then it was near impossible to find places to live for what little money they had left over, especially with the Ministry trying to take our property and what all we had in Gringotts-it was _wizard _land and _wizard _money, after all, and as we were starting fresh, wouldn't we like to leave something for those we'd left behind? They have _lives _to rebuild, you understand. The Ministry stole money from those whose memories they charmed, and made the few who donated their savings to them out to be heroes while ignoring the hardship these "heroes" endured living as muggles. They vilified the rest of us.

Going through school again was hell, as was learning to look at things the muggle way. Sometimes it was fascinating what they did to get around what magic made so simple, but mostly it was like being forced to live in black and white when all of one's life had been spent awash in color. We never realized what we had, didn't get a chance to appreciate anything for a last time because we didn't think we'd need to, taking it for granted as we did. Magic-less, we felt the ache of a missing limb no one could see, and it got worse when the seventy- and eighty-year-olds started dying. Most of us were young- to middle-age according to wizard standards, but we suddenly realized that, like muggles, our lives were fleeting things. We could die so much more easily without magic to protect us.

After Voldemort's demise we awoke to the _real _nightmare. We were alone and helpless, purposely forgotten, and death hovered over the previously mundane and safe, all the while closing in on our childish fumblings. We were most of us older, supposed to have direction and confidence, but with enough time to change careers and enjoy a wizarding rebirth or two; suddenly we were _old._ Frail. Academically, culturally, and socially worse than first-years. Most of us couldn't dress properly, let alone handle muggle currency. We banded together as best we could because we had no one else but our families, and they couldn't fathom what it was like in the still hush before the wizards celebrated and we went into shock and mourned and screamed. We _understood _why muggles burnt witches in days of old. We were old, poor, frail; disillusioned and disenfranchised and embittered; and more than anything, we hated Harry Potter.

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**Notes:** rough around the edges, not to mention the rest. beta? suggestions? should i make this into a series of ficlets rather than this overstrange summary of post-Voldemort magickal britain? 


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